Left and Right
by FangirlingIsAnAddiction
Summary: There's always two names. On your left, your worst enemy. On your right, your soulmate. Natasha Romanoff has no intention letting the name on both of her wrists slow her down. She has an assignment to do. And nothing would get in her way, not even a certain 'Clinton Barton'. One-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay so this randomly hit me and I was like "Oooh! I'm gonna do this!"**

 **Basically all you need to know is that if the dialogue's like this  then the said person is speaking in Russian.**

 _Beauty comes from the dark._

Those five words were her only barrier between sanity and insanity.

She stood up, above the pool of dark crimson blood, wiping the crusting liquid off her hands and onto her charcoal black pants.

Stepping over one of the lifeless bodies, and hiding away her gun, she walks out, not looking back at the death and destruction caused at her hands.

 _Ice is strong, but once it begins to give out, it shatters._

She punches at the dummy.

She delivers a would-be fatal blow.

The metal hominid falls to the ground. She steps harshly on its neck and grinds downwards for good measure.

 _No matter how good you are, someone will match you._

She flips over her sparring partner's front, kicking them in the back as she begins descending.

The girl stumbles forwards.

She feels her lip twisting into a cat like smile.

She kicks the backside of the girl's knees.

The girl falls forwards, and collapses.

"Yield." She snarles, stepping on the other's arm.

She's silent.

" _Yield."_ She repeats harshly, putting all her weight on the other's elbow.

The sparring partner screams, the cries echoing throughout the corridors.

"Yield." She says yet again, this time in a low, threatening voice.

"I"

She stomp onto her arm.

A cry escapes her lips. "I yield!"

She begins to withdrawal, but then digs her heel into the other's elbow and grinds down in a circler pattern.

She then walks off, relishing in the sparring partners quiet whimper and heavy breathing.

 _There are always two._

 _Your sworn enemy on your left wrist._

 _And your soul mate on the right._

She wakes up with a searing pain on both of her wrists.

She watches in fascination as the black cursive words are slowly imprinted on her wrists, the pain not even uncomfortable.

 _One will make you._

 _The other will break you._

She lifts her wrists shakily up in horror, looking at both.

The same name was inscribed on both wrists.

A hollow scream echoes throughout the hallways. No one comes. No one can be bothered by the screams of a young girl. She realizes the screams are her own.

 _"Of course, I wouldn't do the same for anyone. That's what we've been trained. Only ourselves matter."_ She thinks bitterly.

•••

"Natasha, child." A quiet, low, cold voice whispers.

Her eyes instantly snap open and she sits up. "Mistress." She says, bowing her head.

"I have another task for my prized pupil." The Mistress purrs quietly, handing Natasha the file.

She takes it, her face expressionless. She does what she's been trained for for 21 years. She reads the file long enough to know the essentials, but fast enough that her heart doesn't succumb to guilt and compassion.

She has a job to complete. She knows the drill. Find the target. Eliminate them. Come back. Make sure no one ever makes the connection between the Ballet and the Murder. If someone does, take care of them, way or another.

She nods sharply to the Mistress, and the older woman exits, a cold smile much like her own gracing her lips.

•••

The target was Nikolayev Korogeiv.

He had a weakness for Popov vodka.

Her lips curl up into a snarl. That wasn't even a Russian brand.

He's had exactly 44 entries in all different hospitals. All for heart and kidney failure.

She mentally noted this. It could be useful it torture was in order.

His wife was deceased. Cause of death: Stabbing. Source: Unknown. All evidence led back to him, but the case had been closed.

Probably bribed the police.

He had three children, grown up. A boy and two girls. All had cut all ties with him.

A negligent father. Probably a drunkard. She reasons.

The nearest neighbor was a mile away. They were on bad terms. No one would miss him.

However, he had a nice little fortune built up, so when taxes were collected, they'd be sure to notice the sudden cut in the budget. Tax collections were a good four months away. By then she and all trace of her would be gone, like mist.

She pulls on black her suit and began to stash away her weapons.

On top, she throws on a large, fluffy, white fur coat with a matching fluffy hat and walks out of the Ballet and into the icy cold December atmosphere, snowflakes circling down in great flurries, falling to the Russian ground.

Her footsteps crunch on the puffy white snow as she walks to the side of the street and hails a cab.

She quickly gets one to stop and pick her up.

After quickly directing the driver to her destination, she looks down at both wrists.

The job had to be done. No matter what. There was no room for love.

She observes the matching name on each wrist.

 _This makes it easier._

•••

She had the driver drop her off at a town about 10 miles from Korogeiv's home.

She bribes the driver into not charging her, giving him a light kiss on the cheek and walking out, without turning back.

As soon as she hears the rev of the engine and the car speeding off, she turns around and, after checking her surroundings, walks back into the forest.

After stashing her disguise in one if her many safe keeps, and begins her 10 mile trek to the targets house. She makes sure that she is deep in the forest and covers her tracks, despite having shoes with no print on the bottom to ensure that no one can trace her.

The hours tick by one by one.

As dusk was approaching, she reaches the target's house.

She scans the area.

Clear.

With that, she slips through the darkness and into the home.

He had no security. He was either very sure of his skills of his days in the police(he was a corrupt one) or incredibly stupid.

He was reckless. Reckless and arrogant. This would work to her advantage.

She still takes precautions.

Floor after floor, she painstakingly observes each detail. Looking for a sign of a trap. A hint of another person.

Finally she arrives to the fourth floor. She slowly opens the door to the target's room.

The target was laying asleep on his stomach, the blankets huddled around him to keep the harsh Russian winter out.

Quietly, she enters the room, and instantly, her nose was hit with the pungent smell of alcohol.

A bottle of Popov vodka stood at the head of his bed on a desk. She sneers at it before moving into action.

Quickly she grabs his arm and fligs him over.

The target jerks his eyes open and begins to violently try to break free.

Natasha smirks at the fear shining in his eyes.

"You have information I need."

"Need or want?" He spits out.

She feels a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

This was going to be _fun._

She twists his arm backwards, relishing the screams.

"The manuscripts." She snarls. "The ones you stole."

"I don't-"

She pulls back a finger, and hears the sharp 'pop' as it snapped.

"Lying will do you no good. Now. The manuscripts. Or the rest of your hand goes."

"I told you-"

She snaps his wrist back. He screams. She keeps on pulling until the entire hand is deformed.

 _"Tell me."_

 _"No."_

She cocked an eyebrow. _Oh really?_ She clocks him in the face, and rips him fully out of the bed, holding a dagger to his throat.

" _Tell. Me. Where. They. Are."_

"You won't do it." He scoffs.

She smiles slightly, before starting to dig the edge into his neck.

A ragged scream escapes his mouth.

She keeps on going.

"Stop!" He cries. "I tell you!" He says in English.

She pauses, but doesn't pull the blade out.

"It's in-" He switches back to Russian. "Its in my back drawer. The large black one."

She ties him to the bed post with his sheets and gags him with an undershirt laying on the floor. She tentatively goes to the drawer. Taking out the manuscripts, and comparing them to her mental image of them.

They were authentic.

She looks at the target.

Before taking out her gun and firing it into his skull. It was a slug. It wouldn't be traced. It couldn't.

She hides the manuscripts in a part of the skin tight suit and begins to clean up all evidence of her presence here

Just as she was finishing up the last bits, her ears picked up the faintest footsteps.

She looked at the dead target, then to the window that of course were barred shut.

The only exit was the stairs. That'd be a dead getaway. She'd be caught.

She crouched down low under the black desk.

The source to the noise was a man, clearly not meant to be here by invitation. He stealthily crossed over and went over to the target, checking his pulse.

"Dammit." The man hisses.

She slowly readies her gun.

She clicks the trigger.

To her surprise, he ducks just in time. He whirls around, eyes scanning the area. He makes eye contact with Natasha.

She lunges at him, and he counters.

She has to admit. He is good. She hadn't had this much competition since she was 14.

But she was trained to the best. And the best she delivered.

She slams his head against the edge of the drawer.

He slumps, unconscious. She was about to give the last, fatal blow, before something on his wrists catches her attention. She eases him down on the floor and looks at his wrists. On both wrists, left and right, were the words written in perfect cursive:

 _Natasha Romanoff_

Her eyes widen and she slowly observes the man before her.

Blonde. Stocky, but at the same time, built for stealth. Visibly strong arms, and a hearing aid in his left ear.

She backs away slowly.

She had told herself she would be able to kill him.

Told herself it would be easier.

He was her worst enemy.

But he was also her soulmate.

She stares at the man angrily before kicking him in the side.

"Fuck you, Clinton Barton."

She then walks up to the Popov vodka and knocks it to the floor, the glass shattering on the floor, the liquid spilling all over.

She leaves with a cold smirk adoring her facial features.

•••

"Yes, Mistress."

"Well done."

"Will you be needing me sooner? Natasha asks, switching to English.

"Deliver the manuscripts as soon as possible." The Mistress instructs her.

"Yes, Mistress."

She climbs down from the limb of the tree she was in and restarts her path, trying to get as far away from the house and the two men inside of it.

•••

It's one a.m. in the morning and she's still walking through the forest, following the moonlight that the snow reflects off of itself.

Natasha is lost in thought, the slight crunch of snow beneath her feet and the rattle of bare branches against the wind are the only sounds in a world of compete silence.

A slight whistle in the air causes her to jerk back. With a subtle "THUNK" an arrow lodges itself in the tree trunk and Natasha looks at it, blankly, wondering who would be so obvious with their attack on her.

That's when she realized that the edge was flashing a light purple light.

Too late, she tries to jump away, but the explosive hits zero, and the it explodes.

The force of it threw her forwards and she hits the ground. Hard.

Slowly she looks around looking for the offender.

She couldn't see him, but she could hear him.

Her training slams against her skull.

"Protect the Objective."

She stealthily hides it in one of her safe keeps, and sends the coordinates to the Mistress.

This required a diversion.

She got up and began running in the opposite direction, in zig zags around the trees to ensure that he couldn't hit her.

' _Who uses arrows?'_

Her mind frantically scans her mental files, searching for a rouge Archer.

Nothing.

Either he was very, very new to this sort of business, or he was good. Better than her.

She could hear his feathery movements behind her.

She had quickly put together that while she had much better hearing, his eyesight was far more superior to hers.

She doges an arrow that would've have hit anyone else.

He had skill.

Her brain was a whir, trying to figure out a way to defeat him.

She needed more intel on him.

Then it came to her.

If he's an archer, he's more equipped for long distance duels.

She already beat him once before, though that may have been because he had been off guard.

She was sure he wouldn't make that mistake again.

She did a sharp 180 and ran towards the offender.

He blocked her first blow, and aimed a hit to her lower abdomen. She dropped before he could and tried to sweep is legs from under him. He jumped up just in time.

 _Just keep him occupied until the Objective is retrieved._

She ends up catching him in a headlock.

He somehow manages to press a knife to her stomach.

If either tried to kill the other, they would both die.

"Where's the manuscripts?" He asks harshly.

She smirks. "You are in no position to be asking questions."

"Neither are you." He counters.

She flips him over and takes off running, hearing him cursing to himself quite loudly.

And grins.

 _Just keep him occupied. And as far away from the Objective as possible._

Farther and farther she ran, the man behind her showing no signs of fatigue, or the thought of giving up.

•••

She was sure she had reached the Russian-Latvian border by the time the the offender began to lag.

Or so it seemed.

She had quickly figured out how much time it takes for him to load and shoot an arrow.

He perfectly used up that time, and she managed to turn away from what should've punctured her spine.

It did, however, embed itself where her left shoulder met her arm. Right on the joint.

She swore.

It wouldn't be permanently damaged, and it was better than the paralyzing shot he had tried to shoot, but it didn't help her situation one bit.

In her moment of weakness, the offender lunged at her and brought her down.

He pulled a knife out and aimed it at her and she put out a hand as if to stop it.

She wasn't stupid. She knew she'd be gone in less than a minute.

He froze and looked at her wrist.

The glove had begun to slip off and it exposed her wrist.

He tugged it off.

"Natasha?" He asks in disbelief.

She cracks open an eye.

He sits back and pulls away the knife, returning it to its original position in his suit.

"Clinton?" She snarls back mockingly.

He shudders. "Clint. The other is too- _no._ Clint."

"Well, _Clint,_ I have a job to do. So please make this easy and pretend this never happened."

"The manuscripts-" He began.

"-Are safely tucked away by my organization." She says.

Clint nods as if to say "I should've known'.

He stretches out his hand. "Never happened."

She eyes it, trying to figure out if he'll flip her over and take her out.

He sighs. "Oh my _God._ Just take the fucking hand."

She grasps it. "Never happened."

They part ways and Natasha leaves knowing she'll never see him again and will be able to continue her assignments in peace, never having to worry about her Soulmate.

•••

Untill Budapest.

 **A/N: Okay. So yeah. That's it. Its a one-shot, but if one or two people ask I may continue it...**

 **Feel free to comment!**

 **And thanks for reading!**

 **~FanAdd**


	2. Chapter 2

**So I /did/ end up writing a second part haha...it's a bit late. Sorry :/ Like i feel sO BAD FOR NOT UPDATING LIKE I AM ACTUALLY THE DIRT OF THE EARTH FOR WAITING SO LONG TO UPDATE AHHHH.**

 **Whitelion69** **:** **Thanks bro**

 **Guest: lmao no problem I feel really bad for not updating sooner ahhh**

 **Red Sonja 88: continued!**

 **BerbDCat: Thankssss**

 **Guest: I continued!**

 **Percy James Frost: Here's more!**

 **KBishop: Thanks!**

 **CelticCrossings: It has been continued!**

 **GabycatStark13: Continuing it!**

 **FantasyLover1000: Just did!**

 **Guest: Continued!:)**

 **mems1223: Continuing :)**

 **katiebug0410: Thank youuuuu**

 **QuakingSkies: Same bro, it's just wishful thinking on her part tbh. Thanks!**

 **ashcentaur2458: Continued It!**

Snow gently whirled from the sky to the ground.

A few unlucky snowflakes never made it to their intended destination, instead landing upon a hooded figure sitting attop a building, looking down at an orphanage. The lights were dimmed, save for one window. A small girl, about ten, with dark hair in a purple sleeping gown stared out of one of the windows, eyes locked on a point hidden to his own vision.

He shifts his attention to her.

As he does that, he let's his mind wander back to his own past.

 _A loud yell and sharp cry echoed from the thin walls of the home._

 _"Barney.'" His past self cried softly, tugging at the corner of his brother's thin sheets._

 _His brother blinked awake and focused on his little brother. "Hey. Shhh. You're okay." He pulls the six year old into his lap and hugs him. "We're going to be okay."_

 _They both hear the loud shatter of glass as is hit the floor. The shouting continued and the two brothers huddled closer together._

 _"We will be okay." His older brother promised._

He shakes himself back to the present and watches the sun rise and the rest of the lights in the orphanage turn on and come to life.

Another small girl runs up to the one clad in purple. She was a Hispanic and even from here, he could tell she would take no shit.

He smirks slightly and stands up, streaching his arms above his head, enjoying the last unstressful part of today. And it was only six thirty in the morning.

He felt the comm in his right ear crackle to life.

"Barton!"

He cringes at the loud, annoyed voice of his current partener blaring into his good ear.

"Hey, Bobbi. Good morning to you too." He grumbles, turning his attention to where the two girls had been. It was empty.

He mentally booed. He'd much rather spend the day with a few kids than Bobbi. Kids always appreciated his jokes. She, did not.

At least that's what she claims.

With that thought in mind, he grins and swings down the side latter and hops down onto the ground.

A very pissed off Bobbi Morse was waiting for him at the bottom, tapping her foot impatiently.

He turns around and counts to three.

"James!" He turns around at the sound of his alias, looking at the tall blonde women who had called him in a very (false) sweet, high pitched(also false) voice, sinking into his role.

"Yes, dear?" He asks sweetly.

She slides her arm through his right. "Where _WERE_ you? I was worried you were lost."

"Oh, you know, got distracted. Not everyday you get out of the States."

She laughs in agreement and nonchalantly leads him into a darker, empty ally.

After a quick but precise sweep, she turns to him. "Information from The Bus."

He immediately perks to attention, ready to mentally memorize every single little detail Coulson had for him. Everything was important, somehow.

"Radoslav Torodov is hosting a galla tomorrow night, start time is 9. You're still under the alias James Colorusso. I'm, as you know, Ashley Colorusso."

"Of course, _dear_." He grins.

"Why are we here?" She asks, not phased by his childish flirting.

"Our fifth aniversery. Even though we're both like twenty. Which means we'd have to have gotten married at fifteen." He frowns.

" _Acting_ convincingly is part of our jobs, _James_ , though you being able to act older than ten is debatable. "

"Hardy har har." He mutters and listens intently to what information Bobbi has to tell him.

He loops his arm around hers once again and leads them into the thickening crowds. As they walk past the orphanage, even his own damaged hearing can pick up the high pitched laughter and a very distinct _'Billy!'_

 _"_ You okay?" Bobbi leans closer into him.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You were smiling. But not in like a troll way. Like you were _remembering_ something." She gasps. "Does this mean you actually have a _brain_?"

He grins at her. "Fuck off."

"Yes, James."

"What would Hunter say if he heard such coarse language coming from your mouth?" He shakes his head in mock horror, referring to her soulmate.

"Usually, _he's_ coming into _m_ y mouth."

Clint grins. "This is why your my best friend."

"Well, _honey,_ right now I'm your _wife._ And we're on our _honeymoon_ so _act_ like it."

He slings an arm over her shoulder and kisses her cheek.

"This good?" He murmurs in her ear.

"Keep it up and I might leave Hunter for you." She jokes.

"Told you I was irresistible."

"Uh-uh."

 _"Boy! Come here, now!"_

 _He cringed, curling up against his pillows. He heard his brother walk up to their father slowly, as if approaching a wild aniamal._

 _That's what his father looked like, he reasoned. A wild animal. He always had a crazed look in his eyes. It got even worse when he drank._

 _He heard a harsh 'crack' and then a thud. A scream. Another thud. Silence. And then a horrified whimper that came from his brother._

 _It was meant to be quiet. But it somehow it reached his ears. His brother never cried. It was the last sound he ever heard clearly with both his ears. He ran out of bed and into the living room to see what had caused his brother to cry out._

 _What he saw stopped him dead. His father was stooping over his mother's still form. His brother was on the floor, his face bleeding from where a bottle must have hit him._

 _He often saw his mother unconscious, at the mercy of his father. But it was somehow different this time. He looked blankly at her lifeless form and looked up and his father._

 _It was the first time he had looked straight into his father's eyes since he was very, very young._

 _His father tilted his head up, an unspoken challenge given._

 _He backed away, but right as his father smirked and went for another bottle, he grabbed his only toy and threw it at his father._

 _He had always had an uncanny accuracy when it came to aiming. It shone through, hitting his father in the middle of his forehead._

 _His father froze, and looked down on him. Time seemed to stop and his father grabbed the crowbar that mom had always told him had been for "emergencies" and hit him upside the left side if his head. His world funneled and then turned black._

 _"Clint!" Was all he remembered afterwards. It was quiet and disoriented, like someone had stuffed one of his ears with cotton._

 _One look at his brother, and he understood. Tears developing, he took in their surroundings. They weren't home. They were in a different building. He let the tears down, but this time, they were from joy._

"So," He drawled as they entered the gala, slipping into his alias. "What's your opinion of our honeymoon so far, honey?"

Bobbi smiled excitedly. "Oh James, it's been simply _wonderful,_ we're so lucky to have been able to come!"

"Got that right. Cost me a fortune too." He mutters.

"Oh, don't be a spoil sport." She laughs, hitting his arm slightly.

As she leans her head in she mutters, "Remember. There's _alway_ s a third party."

He nodds. "Expect the unexpected."

"Exactly." She says, and then, in a louder voice she says, "Well, James, it's not everyday you're in Budapest. I'll take a look around. You go get a drink or something."

He nods with a slight grin and as he turns around he hears a slight whistle.

Though it may have been loud. He could never tell. He plays with his hearing aid, mentally thankful that it looked similar to his comm. Nobody would ask anything.

He turns around, and sees an older man standing there with a wine glass in hand.

"That's a very fine catch you got there, sir." He extends his hand. "Alexander Pierce."

Clint tenses up. "James. James Colorusso." He accepts the hand, shaking it.

"Its a very fine thing they've got here." Pierce says conversationally, gesturing around them.

Clint smiles easily, though his internal senses were screaming _run_. "Its a lot different from the States."

"I'll bet." He takes a long sip of wine. "Anyways, nice meeting you, _James._ I have a James of my own here. Maybe you'll meet him. Enjoy the rest of your stay here in Hungary." With that he turns, leaving Clint with a cold feeling in his gut.

 _I have a James of my own. That's not creepily possessive at all._ He shakes his head. _Maybe this 'James' is his sugar baby or some shit._ He cracks a involuntary grin. Piece _would_ be a sugar daddy.

He quickly composes himself, however and catches Torodov climbing up the stairs with a few body guards.

Never let the subject out of sight.

 _"We wouldn't want the Russian mission happening again."_

 _This jerks him out of his daydreaming to glare at Coulson._

 _"Rude."_

 _Coulson gives him an easy grin. "I know just how to get your attention."_

 _"That's not weird at all."_

 _"Well I am your handler."_

 _He cringes at the word, as it brought back a rush of memories filled with popcorn, cotton candy, arrows, gunpowder, and screaming victims._

 _"We don't mention the circus man."_

 _Coulson sighs. "Clint-"_

 _"Nope. I don't need you blaring into my ear-no pun intended, surprisingly- about things of the past. I'm good. I promise. I'll just get the damn serum and hightail it outta there."_

 _Coulson sighs but let's it go._

He waits a few seconds and follows.

He casually struts up the stairs, nonchalantly following the three men who exit the building.

He waits, then follows.

He opens the door and feels the brunt of the harsh wind and snow flurries.

Subconsciously, he rubs his wrist, unknowingly tracing the words _Natasha Romanoff_ that were permanently residing there.

Inhaling quietly, he pulls out his bow, and readies one of his arrows and rounds a corner, only to have a metal fist connect with his face.

As the world spirals black, his last thoughts were _Damn. I'm never going to live this down._

•••  
He wakes groggily, and his eyes are met with a bright, glaring red.

"Aghhh." He mutters incoherently and waves his arms in front of his face.

"You're pathetic." A cold, yet familiar voice reaches his one good ear.

"Natasha?" He sits up faster, and grimaces at the pain in his left cheek.

"Clinton?" She parrots.

"I told you. Just Clint."

"I know."

"What hit me?"

"You mean, _who_ hit you? My old mentor. The Winter Soldier."

" _The_ _Winter Soldier?_ As if the metal arm wasn't extra enough." He mutters. "And _The Black Widow?_ I can tell he mentored you. Extra is probably the first thing he taught you.

"And _Hawkeye_ isn't extra?"

He can't see her face but he can tell she's smiling.

"Touché."

"So. Whaddya know about this... _Winter Soldier?"_

"We didn't really exchange personal information."

"Okayyy. But. You're bound to know something? "

He's met with a curt "He's a ghost story." and is left with that said bit of information.

"...Clarification isn't something they teach you at assassin school?"

"And you're not an assassin?"

"It doesn't matter-"

"Clearly your _assassin school_ didn't teach you clarification either."

"I mean-" He begins to answer but she has already turned around, melting into the shadows of the small cell.

He shifts, the chains attached to his wrists and ankles clattering loudly against the bare floor.

•••

"So if the _Winter Soldier_ is your old mentor, shouldn't he, I don't know, not beat you up and chain you in a cell?"

"First off, stop saying his name like that." She snaps.

Clint raises his arms in surrender the best he could. "Touchy."

Natasha sends him an irritated glare. "Secondly, he probably doesn't even remember me."

"So he taught you to be a killer-ninja-ballerina hybrid, jumped ship, and totally forgot about you? Rude."

"Okay. I am _not_ a "killer-ninja-ballerina hybrid" and he didn't just leave."

Clint cocks an eyebrow. "He didn't?"

"He's... not his own person, to say the least. Not since the war."

"War? As in? The Persian Gulf war? The-?"

"World War Two." She interrupted him.

" _What?_ I'm sorry, I could've sworn you said _World War Two._ " He gapes at her.

She shrugs. "You heard correctly."

"What the fuck? He's like. What? 96?"

"Somewhere around there." She agrees.

"So...I got beaten by some hunched-back murder-grandpa?"

"Oh no, he's much more attractive than you." She assures him.

"Okay. Backtrack. I feel like I'm missing key information here."

"He still looks like he's 26."

"Okay yeah but _how_?"

"It's classified."

"How do I know any of this is true? You could be just making all this up as you go."

"Maybe." She agrees.

"Not helping."

"Probably."

She stands up, restrains falling off. "Well, it's been a pleasure speaking with you, 'Just Clint', but I really have a serum to get. Good day."

"'Tasha..." He groans. "Please?"

"As much as I'd love to, I can't." A pin falls from her hair close to his leg and she eyes him intensely. "I wish you luck." And walks out of the cell.

 _"Remember, it is imperative that you get the serum, Agent Barton."_

 _"Yeah, yeah, I know."_

 _"That means taking out anyone who may cause this mission to fail, you understand this, correct?"_

 _He swallows. "Yes sir."_

"Well this is a load of shit." He tells the empty room.

He gets no reply.

He shrugs, but reaches for the pin and starts to work on his restraints.

•••

"Aw _hell no."_ He races up the flight of stairs, chasing the duck-facing(Clint could've sworn he did before he put his muzzle on), leather clad murder-ballerina-ninja hybrid with a metal arm and a face that screamed ' _I got into a fight with liquid eyeliner before I came here'._ Clint was far from amused. He was getting his ass kicked by a 96 year old. And was getting taunted about it too, he was sure of it.

All in all, it was a new low that he never thought he would attain. And what was up with the guys hair Jesus fuck it was a mess.

•••

He ran and he ran and he ran. And when he finally caught up with the guy, he was just chilling, cleaning his rifle.

He approached him, bow drawn. "I won't ask again. Where is the serum?"

He _swore_ the guy was smirking at him from behind the muzzle. It unnerved and ticked him off at the same time.

"I don't have it"

Clint knew enough Russian to know what he said and swore.

"You're a piece of shit, ya know that?" He tells the seated man and takes off. He didn't care that he might shoot him. Clint was well aware that if the Winter Soldier wanted to finish him off he would've a long time ago-that and he was pissed as hell.

Behind him he could swear he heard the man chuckle.

•••

He caught up with the man-Torodov-carrying it soon enough.

Not saying anything, he shot an arrow and cringed at the man's pained shout as it embedded into his leg.

He ran up to him, and snatched up the serum's casing. It was still intact. He restrained from an elated "Yes!" and was about to leave when he saw something along the man's inner thighs and arms. Widows bites.

Why hadn't Natasha taken the serum. His blood grew cold and he took off, holding the case for dear life.

"Natasha! Natasha! Nat-" He stopped at the sight of blood red hair peeking out from a shut door.

Swinging it open, he was met with a weak flurry of blows.

"'Tasha! It's me. Cl-"

"Clint?" She asked.

"Obviously."

She sighs, and bows her head in surrender. "Well finish it off then."

He looks her over and sees wounds scattered all over her, blood flowing freely. No one could have done this to her. No one but her old mentor, he realizes.

It was then that her words finally register into his mind. "Hey, what, no. I'm not going to 'finish you off' or whatever, what gave you that idea?"

"Your directors mandated it."

"You've- you've been _spying_ on me?"

"You've been quite sloppy,-"

"Natasha!"

She gives a harsh laugh. "You sound so offended."

"I _am._ Today has not exactly been my cup of tea, so lets just call Bobbi and get to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I like Bobbi," Natasha comments deliriously, the shock from her wounds finally settling in. "she knows exactly how to catch you off guard."

"I'm sure she'll love you too." He agrees, lifting her up. "But for now lets get some medical help, shall we?"

He doesn't get an answer. He takes out his 'borrowed' phone. "Hey Bobbi, funny story..."

•••

"Yeah I'll be right over. There's something I need to do first."

"Clint..." Bobbi gives him a warning glare.

"What? It's Christmas and I know exactly the place that needs Christmas cheer the most."

Bobbi smiles softly in understanding.

•••

Clint walks into the orphanage, carrying a large bag with him. A huge group of children look up at him as he goes to the personnel in charge and quietly talks to her.

Nodding greatfully, she directs him towards the direction of an empty tree.

He grins down at the children. "Hey guys, not to worry, Santa didn't forget about you guys this year, he just had to send one of his elves since he's down with the flu." He tells them in Hungarian.

"Santa isn't real." A small girl tells him, hands on her hips.

"Oh really?" He asks. Well,"

"America" She fills in.

"Well, America, what would you say if suddenly, presents appeared out of nowhere?"

"It's not probable." Speaks up a small blond boy.

America nods. "Teddy is correct."

Clint grins. "Sorry Teddy." and quickly begins pulling out presents from the bag and arranging them under the tree. "Now, there's only enough for each of you to have one-"

He's cut off by a stampede of hugs and shouts of joy. Smiling, he looks outside as a new batch of snow begins to fall.

Today was a good day.

•••

"Barton! Today is going to be the _worst_ day in your life!"

Clint cringes as he hears Fury's enraged shout from down the hall.

"Sir?"

"My office. Now."

Natasha trails behind Fury, looking as indifferent as always, but a tinge of respect is visible as well.

"I like him." She mouths to Clint.

He grins. "Me too."

Fury looks back at both of them. "Office."

•••

"Sir, she'd be a good fit-"

"Your orders were simple. Get the serum. Eliminate anyone who stands in your way. Can you really not follow simple directions Barton?"

He heaves a sigh and shifts his attention from Fury to Coulson to Natasha.

"I guess I made a different call."

 **A/N: Idk, I kind of like the idea that Clint had some sort of knowledge of Bucky. Like, he's wayyyyy to accepting of Bucky in Civil War ngl. Like "Oh yeah, here's Steve's boyfriend, back from the dead from WWII, who's been a brainwashed assassin for over 50 years no biggie"like no bro. Also maybe this sorta explains why Clint wasn't in tws? Also if anyone was wondering, yes, those were the young avengers :)**

 **Also the flashbacks were just to show you guys the type of home he lived in and how he lost his hearing, nothing deeper or anything(or is it?)**

 **Anyways, thanks for reading!**

 **~FanAdd**


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